


In Memoriam

by spectre_tabris



Series: Canon(ish) Cassandra/Kyra One-Shots [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6754339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectre_tabris/pseuds/spectre_tabris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition has been in Skyhold for less than two weeks when their newly-christened Inquisitor vanishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

The Inquisition has been in Skyhold for less than two weeks when their newly-christened Inquisitor vanishes. The Ambassador first brings the matter to Cassandra’s attention, seeking her out in the training field in search of their missing leader. Cassandra listens to Josephine’s explanation with growing concern - it is unlike Lavellan to vanish in the middle of the day, and even more so to not tell anyone about it: she is too aware of her importance to the Inquisition. Even when she needs time to herself, overwhelmed by the incessant demands on her time and attention, she always makes sure someone - usually Cassandra, the information inevitably accompanied by an invitation to join her - knows where to find her, just in case. That she has failed to do so now is...troubling.

Cassandra sends Josephine to Dorian (other than Cassandra herself, the Tevinter mage is always the most likely to have information on Lavellan’s whereabouts) while she works her way through the Inquisitor’s favorite haunts, the places she hides when she does not want to deal with other people.

She finds no sign of the wayward Inquisitor until she visits the stables, scrunching up her nose at the smell of the horses within. Horsemaster Dennet is there as he always is, tending to his charges, and he looks up from replacing a thrown shoe when Cassandra enters.

“Can I help you, Seeker?” he asks, releasing the leg of the newly-shod bay.

“Has the Inquisitor been here today?”

It is no secret, at least among the members of the Inner Circle, that Lavellan prefers the company of animals to that of most people: to think that she might seek refuge here among the Inquisition’s mounts takes no great leap of logic.

Dennet nods in affirmation. “Aye, she was here not an hour ago - took her courser out, though she didn’t say where she was going. No pack, so I’d imagine she’ll be back before nightfall.”

Cassandra wants to hit something, her hands clenching into fists at her side. Lavellan left Skyhold? Alone? So much for being aware of her importance to the Inquisition. What if she is attacked? She has no backup and while Cassandra would be the first to acknowledge the Inquisitor’s magical prowess, all it would take is one Red Templar with a well-timed smite to render her all but defenseless.

Muttering threats under her breath, Cassandra readies another horse and within five minutes she is riding out of Skyhold’s main gate on the heels of her clearly-deranged leader. Though trying to track a Dalish elf through the woods is normally an exercise in futility, so far as Cassandra can tell Lavellan has made no effort to cover her tracks. She follows the signs of Lavellan’s passage away from the security of Skyhold’s walls and deeper into the thick pine forest surrounding the fortress.

She gains ground faster than she had expected, the prints from Lavellan’s horse fresher with each passing minute and each inch of ground she puts between herself and Skyhold. It takes her only about twenty minutes to stumble upon the white mare that Lavellan has claimed as her own, untethered and nosing around in the snow in search of grazing. Cassandra dismounts and leaves her horse with Lavellan’s, confident enough in Dennet’s training to trust that they will not wander off, and proceeds on foot. The thick sheet of snow covering the ground between the pine trees, broken only by animal tracks and a single set of prints that can only belong to Lavellan, makes following the Inquisitor’s path through the forest child’s play.

Her trail leads Cassandra to a small clearing inexplicably clear of snow. She storms forward, one hand on her sword hilt, with every intention of shouting at Lavellan, of chastising her for her thoughtlessness and her blatant disregard for her own safety, but she freezes at the edge of the treeline and stares, stunned, at the sight before her.

Kneeling in the center of the clearing with her hands buried in the bare dirt and her head bowed, dark curls falling loose around her face, is Inquisitor Kyra Lavellan, seemingly oblivious to the world around her. Magic hangs heavy in the still winter air, a sensation that should be familiar to Cassandra after so many years as a Seeker, but Lavellan’s magic has always been different from the magic of the Circle mages and apostates she is accustomed to, softer and subtler. Cassandra does not know if that is a result of her Dalish training or if it is a trait unique to Lavellan herself and it has never occurred to her to ask. Even if she did, she is not certain Lavellan would answer.

Instead of charging forward, interrupting whatever it is Lavellan is doing at the vertex of the thick swirl of magic, Cassandra stays where she is, right at the edge of the clearing, and watches her leader - her _friend_ \- weave her spell.

It takes long moments for Cassandra to see the effects of Lavellan’s magic, but once she does she cannot stop her gasp of mingled surprise and amazement. Her eyes widen as right in front of her the entire clearing begins to change.

Green shoots wriggle out from the frozen earth, magic lending them speed and strength as they tear through seasons’ worth of growth in minutes. Leaves unfurl and bright flowers bloom - white poppy and purple hyacinth and pink carnation and a dozen others Cassandra cannot identify - until the clearing looks more like a flower shop in spring than a mountain forest in the middle of winter. And in the middle of the clearing, directly in front of where Lavellan still kneels, a sapling rises from the earth, reaching higher and higher as the growth of the surrounding plants slows to a halt. The trunk widens and the distinctive leaves of an oak sprout from lengthening branches.

The magic in the air begins to fade as the oak grows, funneled into the tree that now towers over the kneeling elf, crown easily thirty feet in the air and sturdy branches reaching out in every direction. Had Cassandra not seen it sprout in front of her eyes she would have thought it decades old, at least. She has never seen magic like this.

As the last of the magic disappears and the oak tree’s growth ceases, Lavellan’s shoulders sag and she falls forward as though bowed down by a heavy weight. At last Cassandra steps forward, careful not to crush the newly-blossomed flowers under her heavy boots as she approaches the Inquisitor.

“Did you need something, Cassandra?” Lavellan asks, voice tired but showing no sign of surprise at the Seeker’s presence. Had she known Cassandra was there the entire time?

Though Cassandra had come out here with a purpose, she sets it aside for the moment in favor of the strange situation into which she seems to have stumbled. “What...” She does not know how to phrase her question and instead gestures helplessly at the glade around them, bursting with life where only a few minutes ago it had been brown and barren. Lavellan chuckles, low and weak, and pushes herself up to look at Cassandra. Her face is wan and streaked with mud, her green eyes dark.

“What do you know of my people?” she asks as she folds her legs beneath her. After a moment of consideration, Cassandra lowers herself down to sit beside her, their backs to the oak and overlooking the riot of color spread across the clearing.

“Very little, beyond what you have told me,” Cassandra is forced to admit. She does not add that much of what she thinks she knows is, if her experience with Lavellan is any guide, little more than lies. Lavellan sighs and stares out across the results of her labors, though her eyes are unfocused and whatever it is she sees, Cassandra doubts it has anything to do with flowers.

“When a Dalish elf dies, their body is buried and a tree planted to serve as a marker...and a symbol.”

Cassandra nods. She suspects she knows where this is leading - Lavellan has been quieter since they lost Haven and it is not difficult for those who know her to realize that she blames herself for all of those she could not save. Cassandra does not know how to convince her otherwise - she is not skilled with words the way Varric and Vivienne are, and she is too familiar with the gnawing guilt of having survived when others did not to think that there is any easy solution. She rests a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder, offering what little comfort she knows how to give, and startles when Lavellan reaches her unmarked hand to cover Cassandra’s rather than shrugging her off.

“Is this because of Haven?” Cassandra asks and Lavellan shrugs, a smooth roll of muscle beneath Cassandra’s palm.

“That is,” she says, nodding toward the flowers covering the ground. Then she gestures at the towering oak behind them. “That one...well, Justinia wasn’t the only one who died at the Conclave. I just haven’t had the opportunity to take care of things until now.”

Cassandra frowns, attention caught by this brief mention of Lavellan’s life before the Inquisition. Leliana had compiled a file full of information on their reticent savior, but Cassandra had done little more than glance at it and even then the data seemed to be more about her clan as a unit than about Lavellan herself. And the woman in question rarely offered such information, even when asked.

“I did not realize you had known anyone there,” she says after she processes this latest revelation, mind occupied with trying to determine who among the Conclave attendees would be on such good terms with a Dalish mage that Lavellan would still grieve their loss even so many months later.

Lavellan gives a humorless laugh. “You’ve met me, Cassandra,” she says in a tone that could be mistaken as casual only by one who does not know her. But Cassandra has lived and worked and fought beside her for months, long enough to be able to pick up on the quiet strain there. “Do you really think Keeper Deshanna would send me to the Conclave alone? An awkward, anxious mage in a building swarming with Templars? That would just be asking for trouble. No, my brother went with me.”

Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat as sympathy wells within her. She is all too familiar with the pain of losing a sibling, though when she had told Lavellan about Anthony the Inquisitor had made no mention of her own loss.

“I am sorry,” she whispers, hating the uselessness of the words even as she speaks them. Lavellan snorts.

“My story is hardly unique,” she points out. “Most of us lost someone in the explosion.”

Cassandra inclines her head in quiet understanding, thoughts of Galyan twisting through her mind. Though their relationship was hardly the stuff of legends, separated as they were by duty and distance, she had cared for him deeply and even now she sometimes has trouble accepting the fact that he is gone.

Yes, she acknowledges, many had lost loved ones in Corypheus’s mad bid for power. She just had not realized that Lavellan was among them.

“What was he like?” Cassandra asks. She finds herself curious about this mystery brother, this specter in Lavellan’s life that until now she has kept so secret. But she also has enough experience in dealing with unwanted questions to know better than to push Lavellan for answers she does not wish to give, and adds a quiet, “If you do not mind my asking.”

Lavellan huffs out something that is probably meant to be a laugh, though there is no humor to be found it the tired sound. “If I didn’t want you to know, I wouldn’t have mentioned him,” she points out, leaning back against the trunk of the oak tree. She pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her bent knees as she considers the question.

“He was an asshole,” is what she settles on and Cassandra coughs as she tries - unsuccessfully - to conceal her shock. Lavellan smirks at her, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. “Oh, don’t look so appalled. With the amount of effort he put into it, he would be offended if I tried to claim otherwise. He was one of the best warriors in the clan, hot-headed and bull-stubborn and seemed to think his purpose in life was to protect me. I can’t decide if you and he would have hated each other or adored each other.”

“You have considered it?” Cassandra asks. There is something strangely touching about the idea that Lavellan has put thought into what her clearly-beloved brother (despite her initial insult, only a fool would not notice the grief and love that imbue her every word) would think of Cassandra, and vice versa. Lavellan tilts her head to the side with a questioning stare.

“You don’t?” She sounds genuinely surprised. “I feel like I spend half my time wondering what Rion would say if he were here. Or, I suppose, what he would say _after_ he got done shouting about the whole ‘Herald of Andraste’ thing, which would take a while.”

Cassandra hums quietly, unsurprised by that particular revelation. The first time she had seen Lavellan display any sort of emotion beyond quiet determination had been the moment she had heard her new title, minutes after waking up in Haven. She had let loose a string of Elvhen that Cassandra only learned weeks later were increasingly foul curses and blasphemies (in hindsight, it is probably a good thing that Cassandra had no idea what was being said at the time, as their relationship was strained enough already). In the months since, she has not stopped protesting the name at every opportunity. It makes sense that her brother would have similar feelings on the matter.

In the ensuing silence, Lavellan reaches to the plant beside her and plucks off a small bundle of bright blue flowers - forget-me-nots, unless Cassandra is mistaken. The movement draws Cassandra’s attention back to the display around them, and she recalls the question she had intended to ask when she first sat down.

“The magic,” she begins, struggling to keep her unease from her voice. She knows Lavellan’s control over her magic is remarkable, easily as good as any Senior Enchanter in a Circle of Magi, but unfamiliar magic will never be something with which Cassandra is comfortable. She is also aware enough to realize that this is neither the time nor the place to rehash that particular argument: Lavellan already knows of her concerns on that topic.

Lavellan shrugs, a curl at the corner of wind-chapped lips that tells Cassandra that her companion knows exactly what she is not saying.

“Usually we just plant a sapling and let nature take over from there,” she admits as she fiddles with the flowers in her hands, pulling off leaves and straightening stems. Color is slowly returning to her face as she recovers from her massive outpouring of magical energy, though her eyelids still droop with magical exhaustion. “But then, we’re normally somewhere a little more hospitable than a mountaintop fortress. A sapling wouldn’t stand a chance up here in the dead of winter - neither would flower seeds. They would be eaten or frozen before the day was out. I just...gave them a nudge, helped them skip over the vulnerable first few seasons.”

“I have never seen such magic,” Cassandra says, eyes fixed on Lavellan’s deft fingers as they twist the stems into whatever shape she desires.

Lavellan shrugs again. “Dalish magic,” is all the explanation she offers. She holds the flowers up and examines them with a critical eye. Nodding in satisfaction, she reaches over to tuck the first of the blossoms into Cassandra’s braid.

Cassandra freezes at the feeling of delicate fingers in her hair as Lavellan places her flowers just so, stems twisted into Cassandra’s hair to keep them from falling loose. To her horror, she can feel a blush rise on her cheeks.

“Wh - what are you doing, Inquisitor?” she asks, cursing the waver in her voice. Lavellan wrinkles her nose in irritation.

“I do have a name, you know,” she says as she sits back to admire her handiwork, small blue flowers forming a crown along Cassandra’s braid. The last of the flowers she tucks behind her own ear, the blue a sharp contrast to the dark brown of her hair. Cassandra swallows hard.

“That would hardly be appropriate -”

Lavellan cuts off her protests with a roll of her eyes. “Cassandra, we’re alone, miles away from Skyhold and anyone who gives a damn about propriety,” she points out. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone has called me by name? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it was Rion, actually. It’s always ‘Herald’ this and ‘Inquisitor’ that, except for those assholes who seem to think ‘knife ear’ is an appropriate form of address.” Her voice gets louder with each word and Cassandra’s eyes widen, her concerns about the flowers forgotten. She had not realized that this bothered Lavellan so much. She had not realized it bothered her at all, if she is honest. “You know, I sometimes wonder if any of you even _know_ my name.”

“ _Kyra_ ,” Cassandra interrupts, the name unfamiliar on her tongue. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, though it might take some getting used to before she is comfortable with the feel of it. Lavellan blinks, breath catching, and stares at Cassandra.

“...Oh.” She looks a little dazed and Cassandra shakes her head, careful not to dislodge any of Lavellan’s - of _Kyra’s_ flowers (yes, definitely going to take some getting used to). A smile works its way across Kyra’s face, starting small but widening into a genuine grin. “Yeah?”

Cassandra huffs, though there is no real irritation behind it. “I am still calling you Inquisitor when there is anyone else around,” she warns and Kyra snickers, far more at ease than she had been even five minutes before.

“As if that was ever in any doubt.”

Any reply Cassandra might have planned is cut off by Kyra’s sudden, jaw-cracking yawn. At Cassandra’s raised eyebrow, she flushes, cheeks a deep red beneath the dark lines of her vallaslin.

“I...might have overdone the magic a little,” she admits and Cassandra snorts, staring pointedly up at the towering tree behind them that, an hour ago, had been nothing but an acorn.

“You don’t say.”

Kyra sticks her tongue out at Cassandra, who refuses to dignify the immaturity with a response. Instead she rises to her feet, brushing dirt and leaves from her pants before offering her hand to Kyra.

“I’m taking you back to Skyhold,” she says as she pulls Kyra to her feet. Kyra crosses her arms and shoots Cassandra an exaggerated frown.

“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the boss,” she says. “This is insubordination.”

“You can write me up at Skyhold,” Cassandra replies, voice dry. “Assuming you can stay awake that long.” She has seen enough cases of magical exhaustion to know how unlikely that is - she will be surprised if Kyra even makes it all the way to her quarters before collapsing.

“That does not sound satisfying in the slightest,” Kyra mutters with a pout, though Cassandra notes that she does start walking in the direction of the horses. “Surely there’s a more interesting way to deal with insubordination than paperwork.”

“You can always ask the Ambassador,” Cassandra suggests and Kyra turns to glare at her.

“I will,” she declares. “Just watch me.” Her pronouncement is rendered somewhat less impressive when she trips on a root protruding from the forest floor and would have gone sprawling on the ground had Cassandra not caught her by the arm and pulled her upright. She grumbles but does not protest when Cassandra sticks close to her side after that, keeping a careful eye on her to make sure she does not suffer any other such missteps. They reach the horses without incident but before Cassandra can mount up Kyra stops her with a soft hand on her elbow.

“Hey, Cassandra?” she mutters, eyes locked on the ground, avoiding Cassandra’s gaze. “Thanks. For being here. For listening to me ramble.”

A slow smile creeps across Cassandra’s face, pulling at the scar along her jaw. “It was my pleasure, Kyra,” she replies, a little surprised to realize that she means every word, and Kyra’s answering grin is brighter than any of the flowers they leave behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Flower meanings, according to the all-knowing Google (let me know if any of them are incorrect! I do not claim expertise in the matter):
> 
> white poppy - consolation  
> purple hyacinth - sorrow  
> pink carnation - I'll never forget you  
> oak - courage, protection, strength  
> forget-me-not - remembrance


End file.
